After discovery/confession/wearing-off of charm
The thorns are everywhere
and sharp,
as if for one hundred years,
she’s slept.
No place to turn
without pain.
He lies next to her, still,
sheet pulled over
one shoulder,
only, she thinks, the sleep is feigned;
perhaps his eyes
aren’t even closed.
This is not a bed
of roses.
*****************************
Here’s a poem of sorts inspired by the suggestion of “M” of the Grapeling blog, to write a poem based upon my process notes for “Rosa Multiflora Gore.” The note is the first two lines of this poem. The poem does not in anyway reflect my current state of mind (!) but it’s what came up thinking about the line. I am also linking to dVerse Poets Open Link Night, hosted by Mary.
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